Paragaea (41 page)

Leena shook her head, and her eyes moistened.

“Poor Ponomaryova. In a more honest culture, it would have been her.”

“You know,” Hieronymus said, leaning in close, “I think that may be the first criticism I've heard you utter about your native land.”

Leena dried her eyes on her sleeve, and looked at him.

“I am honest,” she said. “My nation is not perfect, I'm the first to admit, but I maintain that our system is better for the largest percentage of the population than any other history has yet produced.”

Hieronymus smiled. “That's exactly what I used to say, in my school days, about the British system, too.”

“Well, that's what sets us apart from the zealots, I suppose. We recognize the dogma for what it is.”

“Yes,” Hieronymus said, and inched closer.

They were bare centimeters apart, now.

“You know,” Leena said, her voice low, “this may be the first time in all our journeys together that you and I are actually alone.”

Hieronymus pursed his lips, thinking back. “I believe you're right. 
Even on the dhow, there was always someone within a few meters' distance.”

Leena had not been with another man since Sergei had died, all those years ago, and though she'd never before realized it, she may have abstained since then out of respect for his memory. Even his shade, though, should it still linger, could find no fault in two people seeking warmth and comfort in one another's arms.

“Alone,” Leena said, their noses nearly touching. “Interesting.”

“Hmmm. Isn't it?”

Hieronymus's mouth was on hers, and her arms were snaked around his back before Leena quite knew what was happening. There, beneath the stars, they shed their clothes and their inhibitions, and found something like peace in one another's arms, if only for a brief span.

They traveled on, the steppes changing, become permafrost, with a light hoar of frosted grass growing atop a deep level of frozen ground. They had reached Eschar, the boundary between the southern peninsula and the rest of the Paragaean continent. Strange objects and machines jutted out of the landscape, rusted steel and viridescent bronze and alloys Leena could not name.

“These are the remnants of the Genos Wars, millennia ago,” Hieronymus explained as they passed beneath the shadow of a towering spire whose purpose they could not begin to guess. “When the races of metamen rose up against the Black Sun Empire.”

“When I was a child,” Balam said, “my tutors told me that there were…things buried beneath the frozen steppes of Eschar—men, metamen, machines, and monsters. It is said that, in ancient days, the races of metamankind were the servitors of the wizard-kings of Atla, and that tiring of their oppression, they rose up, and did battle against their former masters.”

Menchit laughed mirthlessly. She walked freely now, too far distant from Hele or any other settlement for the leash to be of any need, and stared up at the towering structures with reverential awe. “Ignorant fool. We did not rebel against our masters. We were cast out, for our weaknesses. The Holy Per writes that the demiurges of Atla came to believe that the races of metamankind had become enfeebled, overly dependent on the good graces of their creators, and to strengthen us, the metamen were cast out. The demiurges of Atla burned the steppes of Eschar with cold fire, leaving the dead landscape a sign for future generations, and sealed themselves behind the sacred barrier. One day, when we have purified ourselves, we will be welcomed back into the loving arms of our creators, joining them once more in the paradise of Atla.”

Leena and Hieronymus exchanged meaningful glances, while Balam sighed a long-suffering sigh.

Several days across the burned, lifeless steppes, as they prepared to make camp, they saw a glow up ahead, far over the southern horizon.

“Is that Mount Ignis?” Leena asked. “Isn't the citadel city of Atla built atop a volcano?”

Hieronymus consulted his maps by firelight, noting the additions and corrections Benu had made to his cartography while they sailed aboard the dhow.

“No,” he said at length, shaking his head. “It is far too close to be Atla. Besides, we should be able to see Mount Ignis by day long before we could see its lights by night.”

“There is someone out on the burned steppes ahead of us,” Balam said simply.

Menchit, who seemed to have become more of a reluctant fellow traveler than a prisoner, for all of her vocal disagreements with her
father, looked nervously to the southern skies, and drifted unconsciously nearer her father.

Leena shivered.

That night, she and Hieronymus kept camp close by Balam and his daughter, suffering through their row, rather than separating and risking discovery by beings unknown out in the darkness. She ached to be at his side, this the first night in many long days that they did not lie together under the stars, but she clutched her blankets close around her in the cold air, and shivered until dawn.

The next day, in late afternoon, they came upon a large encampment. Not a fraction the size of Roam, there was still to this tent city something of that flavor. Thousands of temporary dwellings gathered together, forming a metropolis out on the bare permafrost. They decided to exercise caution, and kept hidden behind a towering spar of oxidized steel until nightfall.

Under cover of darkness, they stole into the encampment.

“Take care,” Hieronymus whispered as they slipped between the pickets into the confusion of tents. Overhead, clouds drifted across a moonless sky, and the night was nearly as dim as the caves of Hele. “I would prefer to avoid discovery, if possible, until we learn with whom we are dealing.”

“Agreed,” Balam said in a quiet voice, and at his side Menchit seemed as worried as any about what they might find.

Leena kept a hand near the hilt of her short sword, her other hovering over her holstered Makarov.

Keeping out of sight behind tents and tarpaulins, the company made their silent way into the makeshift metropolis. Unlike Roam, with its ordered rows and avenues, this assemblage of tents was arranged in no discernible pattern, clustered haphazardly across the flat plains of the steppes.

“There,” Balam whispered, and pointed ahead.

A group of metamen, nearly two dozen strong, were moving together through the tents, making for the center of the encampment. Male and female, they were of every conceivable strain and variety of metaman.

“Who are they?” Leena whispered, drawing near Hieronymus.

“A more pertinent question,” Hieronymus answered, “might be, What are they doing?”

“Let's follow and see, shall we?” Balam said. He glanced to his daughter. “Stay with me, Menchit. Do you understand? I want no harm to come to you.”

Menchit did not speak, but only nodded, her jaw clenched.

“Come on,” Leena said, and followed the party of metamen, keeping to the shadows.

Near the center of the tent city, they found a large excavation under way. Hieronymus found them a place to hide beneath a large pile of excavated dirt and rubble, and they regarded the scene before them.

Scores of metamen of all races worked together under bright lanterns, with picks, axes, and shovels, unearthing some massive, ancient engine of war. On the far side of the pit, they saw a collection of metamen dressed in finery, standing with what looked to be a withered old human, ancient and hairless, wearing shimmering robes.

“Gerjis!” Balam cursed spitefully, his eyes on a Sinaa who was standing amongst the dignitaries and had a royal harness crisscrossing his chest.

Menchit's eyes opened wide, and she leapt to her feet and cried out with joy, “Per!”

The jaguar man reached up to drag his daughter back out of sight, but it was too late. Menchit broke away from him, and began racing around the perimeter of the pit.

“Who is that?” Hieronymus hissed.

“My cousin, and my foul sisters,” Balam replied sharply, jumping to his feet and taking a few long strides after his daughter. “And the old human is the twice-damned Per!”

“Balam, wait!” Leena said, reaching out to take his arm. “Look!”

Menchit's joyous cry had drawn the attention of the metamen, and as she raced around the pit's edge to where her aunts, cousin, and spiritual leader stood, Hieronymus, Leena, and Balam were subjected to the angry stares of the workers in the pit, who now advanced on them, hefting pick and axe menacingly.

The mass of the metamen in the pit drew nearer, their eyes flashing angrily in the lantern light.

Hieronymus took to his feet, sprinting back the way they'd come, and called back needlessly to Leena and Balam, “Run!”

Leena made to follow, but glancing back saw that Balam had extended his claws, and was actually moving
towards
the advancing mob.

“No!” Leena cried, grabbing the jaguar man's arm and dragging him after her. “Now is
not
the time.”

Balam looked across the pit to where his daughter even now was embracing his reviled cousin, and then glanced back at Leena, agony etched on his face.

“We must go,” Leena said urgently, sparing a glance at the advancing mob, now no more than a dozen meters away.

Balam bared his fangs, but nodded angrily. Turning his back on the pit, and those who stood beyond it, he turned and raced after Hieronymus, Leena following close behind.

The trio reached the northern edge of the encampment just ahead of their pursuers. Returning the way they had come, they raced out into the dark night, momentarily losing the metamen in the jutting spars of ancient engines of war to the north.

“Here,” Hieronymus said in a harsh whisper, pointing to a rusted shell of metal that rose just over a meter from the ground before bending back on itself, leaving a small cavity within accessible by a narrow fissure.

Leena slid through the fissure, crouching in the cavity beneath the curving shell. Hieronymus followed, his shoulders barely fitting through, and then Balam, who was scored front and back by the ragged edge of the metal, though he bore the pain of it stoically, his thoughts running in tight circles.

“Damn them!” Balam snarled, pounding a fist into the burned ground. “Damn Gerjis, damn Sakhmet, damn Bastet, and damn me!” His breath caught in his throat, and he sobbed, “My poor, deluded girl.”

Hieronymus inched over, and laid a hand on the Sinaa's knee. “My friend,” he said, barely above a whisper, “you must calm yourself. Our pursuers still search these wastes for us, and our numbers are too few to fend them off. If you cannot keep silent, they are sure to find us.”

As if in answer to Hieronymus's words, through the fissure they could see a group of metamen approaching from the south, bearing torches. The Canid and Sinaa among their number sniffed the air, but it seemed that the trio's scents did not travel far in the cold night, and they were hidden from view within the sheltering wreckage. The pursuers passed by, and the trio remained undetected.

Long after the pursuit had gone by, the trio drew close together in a whispered conference, trying to work out what to do next.

Balam, for his part, was all for storming the encampment and seizing his daughter, and damn the consequences.

“I'm sorry, Balam,” Leena said reluctantly, “but Menchit
did
seem to be overjoyed to be reunited with her family.

“
I
am her family,” Balam snarled.

“However,” Hieronymus whispered, “though it pains me to say, she does not accept you. In an ideal situation, perhaps, you might in time force her to recognize you, but in present circumstances, it seems hardly likely. Her heart and mind are turned against you, and now there stands between you and her this massed army of the Black Sun Genesis.”

“Coming to that,” Leena said, “why
is
there an army of religionists in these burned wastes, anyway?”

Hieronymus shrugged. “That's a question we'll have to ponder at a later hour, when we've put more miles between us and that angry mob. For now, I think our only choice is to continue on towards Atla, and leave Menchit for the moment with her people.”

Balam bared his fangs in an angry sneer, but slowly nodded.

“Agreed,” the jaguar man said at length.

“But go quietly,” Leena said as the trio crept on hands and knees out from the sheltering cover of the spar. “The last time I faced a horde of angry metamen it did not go well for me, and I've little desire to repeat the experience.”

The company edged around the encampment without further incident, moving farther south.

The next morning found them many kilometers to the south, the encampment of the Per followers only dimly visible on the northern horizon. To the west, east, and south were nothing but the burned steppes, dotted here and there with the rusting promontories that stood as silent memorial to the lives lost in the Genos Wars.

They stopped to rest and feed themselves. Hieronymus passed
around a flask of water, while they munched unenthusiastically on strips of dried meat and salty hunks of hard bread.

Balam had not spoken since the night before, glowering in silence as they marched to the south, extending and retracting his claws with a fire burning in his amber eyes.

Finally, the silence was more than Leena could bear. “I had understood the Black Sun Genesis to be a religion of the metamen. Why, then, was there a human among their leaders?”

Hieronymus said, “Yes, I puzzled over that, too, in the brief moment I had to consider it. You are sure, Balam, that the old human was the spiritual patriarch Per?”

Balam's eyes flashed, momentarily, but then he sighed, and visibly forced himself to relax. “Yes, I've seen him before, once, when I was a child. That was Per, no question about it.”

“Who is he?” Leena asked. She was beginning to form a theory, but was reluctant to voice it until she had more evidence. “Where did he come from?”

“I'm not certain. All I know is that Per appeared first among the metamen decades ago. It was said he could work miracles, and that he held secret wisdom. He taught that the wizard-kings of Atla had created the races of metamen in ancient days, and that the time would come for the metamen to return home, in the final test that Per called the Reckoning. No one knew where he had come from, though some whispered that he was one of the wizard-kings himself, cursed with immortality and forced to wander the circle of lands until the wizard-kings and their metamen creations were finally brought together.”

Leena nodded, and rubbed her chin thoughtfully.

Days later, the trio reached the southern boundary of the burned steppes of Eschar, and saw shimmering on the horizon before them a translucent curtain of green light extending as far as the eye could see to either horizon, seeming to rise up endlessly into the heavens above.

“The Barrier of Atla,” Hieronymus said wonderingly.

“It seems to curve away in the distance,” Leena said, looking to one side and the other, and then craning her head back as far as it would go. “Is it a dome of some kind, perhaps, curving back on itself?”

“Perhaps.” Balam stood in place, regarding the energetic barrier with an unreadable expression on his face. “I've heard stories of this since I was a cub, but never expected to see it.”

“And none have passed through this barrier since it was erected?” Leena asked.

“So Benu said,” Hieronymus answered. “Or if any have passed through, then they have not returned to tell the tale.”

“And how is this”—Leena held aloft the scarlet Carneol, which she'd drawn from her pack—“going to grant us passage?”

In the gray light of the late afternoon, the red gem seemed to glow faintly with an inner light.

“I suppose we'll just have to see, won't we?” Hieronymus said with a smile, and continued marching to the south.

It was near sunset when they reached the base of the barrier and, in the fading light, the green curtain seemed to shimmer and dance like the Aurora Borealis, casting off a faint green glow. What little they could see of the terrain beyond the barrier was hazy and indistinct.

“Regard the gemstone,” Hieronymus said, awestruck.

Leena looked at the Carneol, still held in her hands, and saw that
it was now indeed glowing with an inner light, bright as a lantern, that strobed and pulsated as she watched.

“Look!” Balam pointed at the barrier before them.

A section of the curtain directly in front of them, a roughly circular patch approximately three meters in diameter, had changed from shimmering pale green to a rich, vibrant crimson.

“It resonates somehow with the gem,” Hieronymus said. He turned to Leena. “Draw nearer the barrier, little sister.”

Leena took a few steps closer, and the Carneol glowed even brighter. The scarlet circle became a fissure in the barrier, opening slowly like a hand parting the curtain, just broad enough for the three of them to pass through.

“Hurry,” Leena said, frozen in place. “I've no idea how to control this thing, and I don't much care to see what happens if we should be standing in the aperture when this thing chooses to close.”

After exchanging a brief, nervous glance, Balam and Hieronymus slipped through the opening, and Leena followed close behind.

As soon as the Carneol had passed through to the other side, the barrier immediately sealed shut behind them, becoming once more a uniform, shimmering green.

“There,” Hieronymus said, pointing to the south.

Atla was still a full day's journey before them, but already they could spy Mount Ignis looming on the near horizon, the red diamond of the citadel city dimly visible at its peak.